For I love the “if” in this stanza, from the FSG Book of Twentieth-Century Latin American Poetry.
from Life-Hook / by Juana de Ibarbourou, translated by Sophie Cabot Black and María Negroni
Love: if I die don’t take me to the cemetery.
Dig my grave just at ground level, near the laughing
Divine disturbance of a birdhouse.
Or by a fountain’s haunting talk.
For the days of Spring Break have more hours in them than other days, but not hours for dusting, from Day by Day.
from To Mother / by Robert Lowell
Your parlor was a reproach, I wish I were there with you,
the minutes not counted, but not forever —
you used to brush mantelpiece and banister
with the forefinger of a fresh white glove for dust.
For one thought may definitely hide another, and one glowing screen may definitely hide many, from One Train.
from One Train / by Kenneth Koch
One idea may hide another: Life is simple
Hide Life is incredibly complex, as in the prose of Gertude Stein
One sentence hides another and is another as well.
For a Monday without bells, and for a seat at my home desk, my tutu mouse smiling to see a human in the seat and to hear Miles Davis play, as Mr. Davis always does if one just tunes in, from Picnic, Lightning.
from In the Room of a Thousand Miles / by Billy Collins
I like writing about where I am,
where I happen to be sitting,
the humidity or the clouds,
the scene outside the window–
a pink tree in bloom,
a neighbor walking his small, nervous dog.
For whatever you celebrate and cherish, from poetryfoundation.org.
from Easter 1933 / by Haniel Long
Anyway, it’s good to stretch out
in the warm white sands,
one’s head in the shade of a dwarf tree,
and look at the Enchanted Mesa —
For bunnies and their babies everywhere, from The Runaway Bunny.
from The Runaway Bunny / by Margaret Wise Brown
“If you become a crocus in a hidden garden,”
said his mother, “I will be a gardener. And I will find you.”
For I’ve never grown lilies, though it’s our grandmother’s name, but the blue, pink, and dark red geraniums and the dark red, white, and climbing red roses are blooming in the courtyard and front yard, from Selected Poems.
from The Red Lily / by W.C. Williams
By the road, the river
the edge of the woods
–opening in the sun
closing with the dark–
everywhere
Red Lily
For rain and more rain, and I think they’ve declared us officially out of the drought for the moment, from poetryfoundation.org.
from Rain / by Edward Thomas
Rain, midnight rain, nothing but the wild rain
For the season, which is of course, track & field season, from The House on Marshland.
from The Shad-blow Tree / by Louise Glück
One year he focused on a tree
until, through sunlight pure as never afterward, he saw
the season, early spring, work upon those limbs
its white flower
For grace, which arrives in all shapes and sizes, from Selected Poems.
from Grace / by James Tate
I was just beginning
to understand when one
who represented the desperate
shrunken state came toward
me, bisecting the whole mass
of concrete into triangles;
and handed me a package.
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